


something I'd set free

by lulabo



Series: many the miles [2]
Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulabo/pseuds/lulabo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's POV, or some of it, as #bingsbdaypartay approaches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something I'd set free

The moment it comes to you, you are are certain of two things: it is the greatest idea in the history of the internet, and you are never going to do it.

It’s one thing to want to orchestrate your sister’s reunion with her dorklove soulmate, but it’s something else altogether when you know you have to rely on that dorklove soulmate’s sister to accomplish it. Because after everything you’ve been through, after all the crying and the healing and the therapy, you still kind of want to hate this girl.

You know your reasons. You’ve given them a lot of thought, examined them under the most potent of microscopes. There’s that one girl in group, the one who wears the hat with the bunny ears 24/7, the one with the really expensive stud in her nostril who never stops cracking her gum, who is super bored with your Gigi Darcy problems. She reminds you every time they come up that you’re having toxic feelings about a person you’ve never met, and that’s fucked up. You only think you know her because of what he told you, she says, and all your other shit about her is because of your sister shit, and that’s not her fault, either. Stop projecting, she says. And Lauren, the group leader, who is impossibly kind and has really, really white teeth, gently reminds you that your life is not a competition. Not for attention or love or viewers or validation. Which is true, but it’s a lot easier to take from Dr. Pat, who has about 40 years and 50 pounds on Lauren—Lauren, who has skin so perfect, it’s disturbing, but it’s also highly unlikely that she’s ever cried herself to sleep. (Sometimes you think you don’t pay attention to the right things in group.)

You call Mary to video chat as you stride from one end of campus to the other. Mary is pretty much the closest thing you have or have ever had to a really best friend, but because Mary wields sarcasm like a blunt instrument and because sometimes you sound like you’re making fun when you’re not, you don’t just call anymore. Experience has taught you both that you need to see each other when you speak or you’ll both end up with hurt feelings and festering resentments. You wonder why it seems like everyone’s joined the Gigi Darcy Brigade, if you aren’t a little entitled to your total lack of enthusiasm re: her everything. And Mary does that thing where she cuts her eyes to the side and sucks her top lip between her teeth, which always means she’s going to say something you don’t want to hear.

“What,” you say.

Mary tucks her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t use a careful voice with you, which you appreciate, because Mary has a limited amount of patience for bullshit. “No one is saying that you have to be BFFs with her,” she says.

You whine. “Mary, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” she says. “Everyone telling you this is on your side, Lydia. But all that negative energy you push on her is misdirected. She’s not the one who hurt you.”

You think about the necklace you used to wear. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I’m ever going to like her.”

“You don’t have to like her, dummy,” Mary says. “But she never did anything to you to make you hate her, either. Put the blame where it belongs. That’s all Bunny Girl is saying.”

“Oh, my gaaaaahd,” you say, “she’s just the woooorst.”

Your invitation to Bing Lee’s birthday party arrives in the mail, addressed to you and only you, not to The Bennet Family or The Sisters Bennet. Like you’re someone important and worth singling out. You tuck it under one of the ribbons on the memory board that hangs over your bed and lay on your back, your feet against the headboard just beneath it. Your mom comes looking for you at dinner time, and you’re still there, putting all the pieces of the party together in your head. Who you’ll see for the first time in a long time; who you’ll have to avoid; who will have seen you before you might have ever laid eyes on them yourself. You give yourself permission not to go when you start to feel a little panicked by the thought of all those people. You’ve exposed enough of yourself. You don’t owe anyone anything anymore.

But your mom’s made chili and cornbread for dinner, one of Lizzie’s favorites, and you spend the meal making small talk with your parents and thinking about Lizzie. Lizzie would have a strategic plan for this party. And as much as Bing’s birthday party should be all about Bing, you know that for the other two sisters who got their own invitations in the mail addressed especially to them, it’s also a lot about Lizzie.

It’s a Monday, no group, no Dr. Pat, just you and your parents alone in the house and your sisters three thousand miles away. You try not to think too much about the fact that they’re together at one end of the continent while you’re at the other with your parents. If you dwell on it, all those states like puzzle pieces between you, all the late nights they might be up whispering secrets you don’t get to hear, all the shared little routines they’ll develop without you there to disrupt, everything inside you balls up tight, tight, tight. So you make your cat chase a laser pointer and watch MTV. You send Mary a text, asking her for a favor, because you don’t want to see her face when you do. Or you don’t want her to see yours, really, because you want to pretend that this is all very casual and Not a Big Deal.

Mary says she’ll do you one more favor. Not for the first time, you wish she were closer, not just because in this moment you want to hug her, but because this has always been a lonely town for you. It would be nice to go for a drive, or to a movie, or do anything to take your mind off all the stuff inside it. Instead, you wedge yourself between your parents on the couch and watch a show about competitive dancing on cable, your head on your dad’s shoulder, your feet in your mom’s lap. It may not be much, but it’s okay for tonight.

The next day, you wait until after lunch to text Mary to find out her progress. She says she’s left the message. You let yourself pretend to forget about it the rest of the day. You go to class and study and facetime with your sisters, and when you talk about Bing’s birthday party, it’s clear among the three of you that attendance is basically a foregone conclusion. They pretend to hug the phone when they say they wish you were there.

You get the text between classes, as you’re on your way from Western Civ to Trends in New Media. You know it’s going to be just a message from a random number—it’s not like your phone is suddenly going to start blasting “Walking on Sunshine” and shooting glitter out of the microphone, like you live in the cartoon world where this girl was probably conceived—but you’re relieved just the same when that’s all it is. Mundane, boring. Perfectly punctuated, as far as you can tell. An invitation.

_Hi, Lydia. This is Gigi Darcy. Mary said to text you? This is my number if you want to give me a call sometime._

You stop and shield your screen with one hand as you thumb out a reply with the other. It’s bright, and you can barely see the details on your phone, so you erase everything and wait until you’re in the vestibule of the humanities building before you reply. You are succinct, even businesslike, you think. Like every contestant in every competition-based reality show ever, you are not in this to make friends. _Thanks for getting in touch. Are you and your bro going to Bing’s party?_

And of course, she says, they wouldn’t miss it. So you say you’ve got class, you’ll call her later, and then you are specific. (This is a thing you’ve learned in therapy: when you’re trying to tell someone what you need, emotionally or otherwise, specificity is the best tool in your arsenal.) _I want to talk about Lizzie and your bro. I have a project I might need your help with._

Your phone might as well explode in a fart of glitter and sparkling unicorn fireworks then, when she writes back: _I LOVE PROJECTS._ No one, you think, not Bunny Girl or Mary or Lizzie herself could blame you for rolling your eyes. Of course she fucking does.


End file.
